


cognition

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode 170, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Season/Series 05, references to depression/suicidal thoughts as canon in 170, they're so in love dammit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28215444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: "It's the Lonely, Jon. It's me.""Not anymore.""No... no, not anymore."aka Jon takes it upon himself to check up on Martin after the events of episode 170 in his own awkward way
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood
Comments: 6
Kudos: 95





	cognition

“We can rest if you want.” 

Something about it comes off awkward if not genuine, and it bothers Jon that he can’t quite put his finger on why. It bothers him that Martin will _hear_ that hesitancy, but it’s too late now. Someone has to break the silence, and he doesn’t think it’s going to be Martin.

It’s been… difficult. Losing Martin had been… it had been… well, it had happened. An eventuality that they should have planned for and hadn’t. They’re smarter now. They can be smarter now, more aware of their surroundings. But whatever had been waiting for Martin there, in that brief glimpse of The Lonely… it had taken its toll. Of course it had.

And Jon tries not to _Know,_ tries to respect Martin’s boundaries, he does! It’s just… he Knows, anyway. Some of it, bits and pieces, enough to jigsaw together parts of what Martin must have seen and heard and felt. He can’t help it. He doesn’t want it. But then Martin probably doesn’t want it, either.

They haven’t spoken much, but he’s held onto Jon’s hand so tightly that both of their palms are sweaty now. Jon can’t pull away, so he offers his awkward words instead.

“Just if you need to.”

Martin does need to. Jon knows without even trying, even as Martin opens his mouth to reply and stops after an aborted “I’m–” He’s not fine. He’s allowed to not be fine. Martin knows that. “God. Is it _really_ stupid of me to want to take a _nap?”_ he blurts suddenly, and Jon chuckles, breathing out a sigh of almost relief. “Like, I know we don’t _need_ to sleep–”

“No,” Jon says. “But it does sound nice, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Martin agrees quickly. “Even if it’s not safe–”

Jon pulls him to a halt, careful but insistent. He can’t treat him like spun glass, but he does deserve a moment to heal. “It’s safe enough,” he explains, and Martin looks at him for a long, weary moment, before ultimately deciding he must be right.

He drops his pack, all but folding to the ground. “I just need ten minutes. Just– just ten minutes, whatever the equivalent here is.”

“Sure. We’ve got time.” They do. Endlessly. But he doesn’t say that, just gently sits down next to Martin and pats his thigh in invitation. How many times had he fallen asleep with his head in Martin’s lap in the past few weeks. He wonders. Back at the cabin, when things had been… easier. Martin’s turn now, though, and he does take the offer, curling onto his side and resting his cheek against Jon’s leg. Jon threads his fingers into his hair and apologizes for the little things. “Sorry it’s not more comfortable.”

“Better than The Buried,” Martin mumbles. His voice is muffled by Jon’s sweater. “Better than The Desolation. Better than those stupid chairs,” he whispers, and Jon doesn’t quite understand that one, but doesn’t quite need to, either.

He just strokes Martin’s hair until he dozes off, and lets him rest for as long as he can.

He knows the nightmares will be relentless in coming. They will latch onto Martin, ready to siphon off his pain to the eyes above and below, and they _do;_ Jon feels _it_ before he really feels Martin start to shift, uneasy and unhappy in unconsciousness. Jon tries not to Know. He _really_ does. But he can’t help it.

Faded moments, distant memories. He tries to push them away as soon as they come, tries not to Know the reasoning behind them. He sees a care home and a coffin and cold, metal chairs alone in the fog. He hears Martin’s voice like he had earlier. Speaking about his house and a smell and living or dying.

_I can’t think of anyone in the world who would care if I lived or died._

Jon feels sick at the thought, and Martin jerks awake, breathing hard and unhappy.

“Was that…” Martin trails off, even as he propels himself upright. Mostly. His shoulders still slump and he braces his hands on his knees, looking a bit miserable. “Was that even ten minutes…?”

“Probably longer,” Jon admits. He wants to reach out and put his hand on Martin’s, wants to maybe rub his back or kiss his shoulder, but they almost feel out of necessity now. True that these are things Jon wants to do, sometimes, in a normal moment, too, but… it feels forced, now, stagnant and robotic. Christ, he is not good at romance, or consoling people.

“Oh.” Martin puffs a little laugh and pushes his hair out of his eyes. “Well. I guess that’s what happens when you don’t really need to sleep at all. It all feels like five seconds.”

“Sorry.” He wishes he could give him that, at least. Rest. Proper rest, comfortable and refreshing. He should be able to promise him that much. After taking over the world, he should at least be able to provide a soft place to land. It should be his to mold, shape out and feel along until it was perfect. But it isn’t, and all Jon can do is apologize.

As it is, the apology does soften the lines around Martin’s eyes. Just a little. The weariness recedes slightly, and he smiles, a fragile, brittle thing. “Not your fault, Jon.” It is, and they both know it, but they don’t both need to be struggling against the pits of despair. If Martin could get on, so could Jon. Simple as that.

_I can’t think of anyone in the world who would care if I lived or died._

The misery on Martin’s face prompts Jon forward before he really knows what he’s doing. He rests one hand on Martin’s cheek, and then the other, resting his palms around the curve of his jaw. And Martin doesn’t pull away, just looks a little surprised, and then content, and then stricken when Jon says,

“I care if you live or die.”

Martin doesn’t pull away. It looks like he wants to, at least partially. But he doesn’t, which is just as well, because Jon doesn’t know if he could let him go right now. He just wants to impress this on him, wants to hold him and stare into his eyes… something so terrifying and unwanted, anymore, but Martin’s eyes are… beautiful, Jon thinks. Beautiful and welcoming, always.

“I thought you–” Martin breathes out in a gust, emotion flashing across his face. “I– I thought you weren’t _Looking,_ at me. In me.”

“I’m– I’m _not.”_ He wishes that were true, sometimes. But then sometimes, like now, it is so blissfully _relieving_ he can know these things at a base level. Knowing Martin was ready to carry on, holding those thoughts somewhere within himself… yes, it was The Lonely for a reason. Jon despised it. “I just– _get_ things, especially when you sleep. I–It’s just _there._ And you were, in that place, you were…” He takes a breath. “You were talking into the tape recorders.” He’d heard plenty more than he ought to have had. “I had to find you somehow, but when you were talking into them sometimes, I couldn’t– I couldn’t help it. I didn’t intentionally _try,”_ he stresses, and that part is true. But they’ve gone off-piste, a bit. “But I still stand by what I said, Martin: I do care. I would care if– if something happened. If you…” _died,_ he doesn’t say. He doesn’t have to. 

It’s a dangerously possible reality, and Jon really _does not_ like to think about it. So he won’t. He won’t let Martin, either, if he can help it.

“I…” Martin closes his eyes, and turns his face into Jon’s hands. “I know. I– I know, Jon, it’s just– that place. It… it makes you… it makes you forget. That there’s people. That there’s you.” He rests his hand on Jon’s. “It’s hard to remember, because the other… the other stuff is easier. Familiar,” he admits, begrudging and tentative. “Something– something from a different me. O–Or, I’d like to say it’s from a different me–”

“It is,” Jon interrupts. He fidgets with a piece of Martin’s hair, and nods. “It is, Martin. I’m here.”

“I know.” 

“I won’t leave you alone. U– Unless you want to be. Or _need_ to be,” he adds quickly. “If you need to be… by yourself,” he says, struggling for a different word besides _alone,_ “I… I can do that. I think I can do that,” he mutters, and then, raising his voice, “but I’ll still be there. If you need me. When you need me.”

“I know, Jon.” Martin tugs Jon’s hands away, sandwiching them between his own. “I… Jesus, I can’t get through my realm _once_ without wanting to blubber.”

“That’s probably a proper emotional response.” Probably. Jon isn’t sure. ‘Proper’ seems so foreign now, and the last time he’d shed tears, he hadn’t known if it had been from fear, or from joy. He… still doesn’t, actually. “If you need to cry–”

“I’m not sure _anyone_ needs to cry.”

“Stress relief?” Jon guesses, and Martins huffs softly in laughter.

“Not during the apocalypse, I don’t think.”

He has a point. “Fair enough.”

“No, I’m– I’m not going to cry. Again.” Even still, Martin has to wipe his eyes, and Jon would do him the courtesy of pretending he didn’t see if he didn’t immediately follow up with, “much. God, it’s just… it’s nice to hear you say it? Not that you have to. Not that I– not that I don’t _know_ that, already, it’s just–”

“It’s nice to hear,” Jon repeats, because he thinks he understands, a bit. How nice it had been to hear Martin’s voice after all of that time he’d been working for Peter. How nice it is now, to have Martin at his side. It’s not the same, not exactly, but… he absolutely understands the power and sanctity of saying a thing out loud, and hearing it with your own two ears.

Martin smiles, another weak thing, a sign he’s still struggling. But it’s genuine. A recovery. Acceptance, maybe? Hmm. Jon can’t quite describe it. He’s curious, but not that curious. It’s _good._ That’s what matters.

“I love you, Jon.”

“I love you, too,” Jon says immediately. Reflex, and easy like breathing. But then he frowns, just a bit, and, “that wasn’t me, er– inadvertently asking for–”

“I said it because I wanted to,” Martin interrupts, but he says it with an almost teasing hint to his gaze. Almost.

“Right.”

“But it is nice to hear,” Martin continues. He says it almost like it’s a question, and Jon nods.

“Very nice to hear,” he agrees, and takes Martin’s hand in his own again.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know where I was going with this fic but I desperately needed Jon to take Martin's face in his hands so there's that. but also I like the idea of Jon just being so set on the fact that he loves Martin that he can respond without having to think about it but a few seconds later, he's just like wait _Martin_ LOVES **me???**
> 
> anyway I went ballistic with 170 it's my favorite episode so far this season...... I am excited to get caught up ahhhh


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